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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29516823">the stirring in my gut (nausea or loneliness)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmicpunishment/pseuds/karmicpunishment'>karmicpunishment</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>IRL Fic [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, IRL Fic, Illnesses, Nausea, Self-Esteem Issues, Sick Character, Sickfic, Swearing, They're a family your honor, Vomiting, Wilbur Soot Angst, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot-centric</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 03:26:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,325</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29516823</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmicpunishment/pseuds/karmicpunishment</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilbur felt like shit. </p>
<p>or</p>
<p>Wilbur is sick and alone and struggling but even worse, he's missing a recording session with Tommy.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Charlie Dalgleish &amp; Wilbur Soot, Phil Watson &amp; Wilbur Soot, Technoblade &amp; Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot &amp; Technoblade &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>IRL Fic [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168364</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>699</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the stirring in my gut (nausea or loneliness)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm on a sick fic kick lately i guess</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Wilbur felt like shit. Maybe that wasn’t the most verbose description, maybe he wasn’t putting his poet's tongue and writer's brain to proper use but he didn’t really care. His limbs felt like lead, his head filled with cotton, his lungs aching like he’d inhaled a cloud of his namesake. His eyes were dry and his nose was runny and his lips were cracked. So yea, all in all he felt like shit. He’d peeked at his reflection in the black void of his phone screen earlier and vowed to avoid doing it again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bloodshot eyes had peered back at him, the bags underneath surely showing purple in real life were heavy looking in the image shown. His cheeks glowed red and hot and his forehead glistened with sweat, soaking his already grease dampened hair. The shadows sharpened his cheek bones to knife points and hollowed his eyes into voids. He barely looked human, more caricature than man. Almost against his will he found himself drawing comparisons to a Tim Burton character, lanky and skeletal and </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He didn’t like looking at it, and quickly put his phone down, even as his arm protested at the movement. He didn’t care. He’d rather ache for hours than look at himself anymore, sick and ugly and alone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it's not like he didn’t already ache, he did. His chest aching with every stuttering breath, his head aching at every glimpse of light, and his body aching at the slighted movement, be it curling on his side or picking up his phone. He couldn’t even fathom the pain that would come from sitting, or g-d forbid, standing up, so he hadn’t bothered to try. It didn’t matter that morning was running into afternoon or his mouth was becoming painfully dry or his sheets increasingly soaked through with sweat. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he got up anyway. Stumble his way to the bathroom and claw through his cabinets for medication he knew he didn’t have? Crawl to the kitchen and stare at the empty cabinets looking back? Collapse on the couch in the empty living room with no one there to reach for? There was no one home, no one to call for down the long hallways. All of his roommates were long gone, visiting family or on business trips or doing whatever they were doing in an attempt to get away from this dreary fucking city. He couldn’t blame them, he would have fled long ago if he’d had anywhere to go. Just looking at the grey sky and the grey city and the grey smoke curling through the streets was enough to make anyone sick. Ha. Sick. That’s ironic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckled at the thought, wincing at the wheeze that pulled its way out instead. G-d he sounded like fucking Dream, except far less lively. Less tea kettle and more dying old man. He could just imagine the responding cackle Tommy would let out at the sound. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck. Tommy!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d promised the kid a recording session today, another modded minecraft video with Phil, Charlie and an added Techno this time. He’d been really excited about it too when he told Wilbur, something about a Pokémon or animal taming, he couldn’t recall, the sheer excitement tangible in Tommy's voice over a discord call distracting him from the details. And now he was going to miss it. Shit. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He was such a bad friend, such a bad </span>
  <em>
    <span>brother</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Tommy asked him to do one thing and he couldn’t deliver. He couldn’t suck it up for a few hours of sitting in a chair and playing Minecraft, couldn’t crack a few jokes instead of wallowing in bed while laying in his own sweat. What a loser he was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck that. He could do it. He would sit in his chair and ambulate around the game, cracking jokes and probably making some new cult, and it would be done. He wouldn’t have to be a shit brother or a disappointing friend (at least not more than usual). All he had to do was get up, make himself not look like utter shit, and record a video with some of his closest friends. How hard could it be?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This was the hardest fucking thing Wilbur ever done. His legs were trembling and his hands shaking and overall he felt like a much less adorable baby Bambi. He stared in the mirror (trying to ignore the voices in his mind, one pleading to look way, the other unflinchingly looking and pointing out all the was wrong) at his reflection and shuddered, though from fever chills or the shock of his appearance he wasn’t quite sure. The image from black mirror of his phone had nothing on this, a nice clear image in the fluorescent bathroom lights, painting his sickly form in clear view for all to see. Or at least anyone in his bathroom, which as of now, was only him. His skin was pale and tinged a yellowish green. Well, except for the parts stained a bright red from heat. His cheeks were rosy and his nose a Rudolph red, and with his jutting cheekbones and purpling under eyes, he looked more like a poor Victorian orphan boy, if one that clocked in at 6’5. His hair shined with grease under the lights and his skin shone with sweat. He looked, in a word, awful and he knew anyone who saw him would be able to tell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They didn’t usually stay on video during their recording sessions, only recording their own face cams to put in the video but they liked to start on it before turning on the cameras, just to say hello to everyone. He just knew the second he turned it on they would clock his illness. He could probably get away with no video camera for the video, claim a drained battery but he knew they’d question it if he didn’t even show his face on the discord call. Shit. He could shower, </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>shower, but  the thought nearly sent him to the floor. Instead he scrubbed at his face, and sprayed about half a can of dry shampoo in his unruly hair. He could tug a beanie on later to hide the worst of it. His face was still blotchy, half burning red and half sickly pale, but he could bullshit some lighting excuse if he had too. He brushed his teeth, trying to get rid of the taste in his mouth and swore as he knocked his toothpaste to the ground. He bent down to pick it up when suddenly the room started to spin. His vision swam and his legs shook and suddenly all he could taste was bile. The next thing he knew he was hunched over his toilet, the cool porcelain forcing him back into his body, heavy and aware. He coughed and sputtered but nothing came up. He just sat there gagging and spitting as the world spun around him like the world's worst carousel. The sound of something dripping the water below him registered in his ears. Oh. He was crying. Weird. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hadn’t cried in a while. A few months probably, maybe more, he couldn’t quite recall. His memory felt like mush, and he couldn’t focus on much beyond the haze in his mind. Only the cool porcelain beneath his forehead, the nausea in his stomach and the tears rhythmically dripping into the pool below. The porcelain rim beneath his head was jarringly cool against his flaming cheeks and sent a spree of shivers racing down his spine. He was used to his hands shaking, from lack of sleep or forgetting a meal or just far too much caffeine but this was different. His whole body felt jerky, like he’d been outside in a blizzard, his limbs shivering and body following along. Sweat and tears and bile were all he could feel, sticking to his skin and hair and lips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He felt disgusting, knelt on the floor of his bathroom, heaving and crying into his toilet. His face was too warm and sticky with sweat and tears. His fingers were freezing, numb as they shook in their grip of the bowl. He felt like the clashing of fire and ice, like water and lava in the silly game he played to make a living. At least when those two combine they make something sturdy, obsidian or stone. He felt more like a glass pane, ready to shatter to bits at the slightest provocation. Just thinking of Minecraft sent another sob past his lips. He didn’t know the time, laying here felt as if it could be hours or seconds spent in this agony. He might be late already for the recording, disappointing everyone again. He could be here, still long before the recording time, sitting and shaking with no way to check the time. The thought of moving, of walking, even reaching for his phone way up on the counter sent a preemptive ache throughout his body and the nausea spinning in his chest. But even more than that he wanted to reach out to someone. Wanted to hear someone's voice, to hear concern and care in their tone. Wanted someone to tell him he would be okay, that it was okay to cry. Wanted someone there, to wipe his cheeks dry of tears and make him soup and rub his back as he puked. Wanted someone to place a cool hand on his forehead or bring him cold medicine or even just sit with him as he slept. But the apartment was empty and cold and hollow and everyone he wanted to talk to was many miles and a screen away. He was alone, as usual. He should be more used to it but now. He wasn’t. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, the clock a mystery to his blurry eyes, more a nuisance with its ticking than anything else. He had gagged and spit a few more times, until nothing but saliva fell from his lips. He thought his tears had stopped, though he couldn’t quite tell. His face felt tight and hot and sticky but he couldn’t be bothered to wipe anything away or wash his face again. Eventually he stumbled back to his feet, the nausea a low simmer for the moment. He flushed the toilet and turned towards the sink, staring at his feet to keep track of his movement (and to avoid the mirror). He grabbed his phone and staggered about the bathroom, leaning against the wall the whole way. The motion sent his head into a brand new set of spins, a roller coaster on a brand new track. He closed his eyes and kept on moving forward. He just had to get to his room, to his desk. Then he could type a message, delay the recording for a day or two, or tell them to go on without him for this one. Tell them he had a cold or a migraine and hope they didn’t ask for more. He would send a witty message, wave off any concern and then collapse in his bed for another hundred years, the worst sleeping beauty around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They wouldn’t care much anyway. As a few questions out of decency, or some thin layer of concern, but if he played it right they would move on quick enough. Play a game together, laugh together and forget about Wilbur Soot for the day. That was okay. It would have to be. Tommy would probably be the loudest in his concern, shrieking his head off about it, but he’d be distracted soon enough. Phil would be quieter, but more persistent but he had bigger things to worry about, than fake some fatherly concern for someone less than ten years his junior. Techno would pretend he didn’t care even if he did, and that was fine in his book. Charlie would crack jokes, lighten any dark moment. He would do good to fill any empty space he left behind in the video. Not that there would be much. A stupid bit that went too far and a few comments about a brotherly bond? Yeah, that was a huge loss for Tommy’s content. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, guilt panged in his stomach, sitting with the nausea like they were the best of friends. He was abandoning his friends, when they were relying on him. Sure, it was probably for the better, for them and for him, but still. What a piece of shit he was. Not much of surprise to him, but he’d hoped not to clue them in for a bit longer. Keep up the thin visage of maturity and reliability. Ha. What a joke that was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hoped Tommy wasn’t too disappointed over it. He should get to live without the realization that disappointment comes hard and fast and frequent in this world. He’d probably realized it already honestly. He was a bright kid living in the 21st century, a world ripe with disappointment and disaster. Still he’d hoped to spare him from his own brand of failure for just a bit longer. Too much to hope for, it seemed. Seems like anything was too much to hope for these days. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He crossed the threshold of his doorway and stumbled into his desk chair, collapsing in it like he’d run a marathon. With a trembling hand he started up his PC, breath being caught as he waited. His hands were shaking, setting his mouse off wildly across his screen as he clicked on the discord icon. His vision was blurry, the glow from the screen sending pain shooting through his head. Maybe he wouldn’t have to lie about having a migraine at this rate. Sweat had started to pour anew from his “vigorous” motion, but luckily it seemed the tears had stopped for good. Thank fucking g-d, otherwise he thought he might have shriveled up like a dehydrated sponge by now. Finally, Discord loaded, profiles popping up, red numbers he honestly couldn’t read telling him how shit a friend he was. The group for the mod videos was lighting up with unread messages, and a glance at the clock told him he was already 15 minutes late to their session. Fuck. So much for not setting off concern. He’d hoped to pop in with a message to assuage concerns and pop back out to head off to dreamland, but nope. He was Fate’s bitch and she was in a spiteful mood, apparently. As he clicked on the icon and prepped what he was going to write, he could see the messages pop up below:</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Big Maninnit is typing…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Old Man Philza is typing…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Potatolover29 is typing…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>AmBurger is typing…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shit. He was so screwed. They were all in a Vc together already, probably coordinating attacks to tell him how much of a shit he was. How annoyed or mad or upset they were. Probably joking together how they wished he hadn’t showed up at all. A new set of sweat started dripping down his face, though from the fever or the brewing anxiety was anyone's guess. A new message brought him out of his spiral, though his heart was still thump, thump, thumping away in his chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Big Maninnit: finally big man! the others were getting worried. Not me obviously, I'm too cool to worry. did you sleep in again?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His breath quickened. Worried. They were worried His fingers moved across the keyboard, typing and deleting messages as his mind raced through possibilities .</span>
</p>
<p>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>I’m fine, sorry, have a migraine, can’t make it</span>
    </em>
  </strike>
</p>
<p>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>got a small cold, sorry about sleeping in, go film without me</span>
    </em>
  </strike>
</p>
<p>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>i feel awful. the world is spinning and my head hurts and I feel like puking but there's nothing left in me and im scared. </span>
    </em>
  </strike>
</p>
<p>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>I'm so alone. I want someone to help me</span>
    </em>
  </strike>
</p>
<p>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>There's no one here. </span>
    </em>
  </strike>
</p>
<p>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>why is no one ever here when I need them?</span>
    </em>
  </strike>
</p>
<p>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>help me. please. </span>
    </em>
  </strike>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The others must have gotten tired of waiting for him, or seeing the message of “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Not Wilby is typing…”</span>
  </em>
  <span> cause soon another message popped up </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Old Man Philza: are you up for joining the VC? Might be easier to say whatever it is you’re trying to say without loud, instead of typing. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Old Man Philza: no pressure</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pssh. Yeah sure. “No pressure”. Just say those words and the pressure goes away. Except it never worked like that, and the universe certainly wasn’t starting now. The stress and nausea were bubbling in his stomach like the worst potion ever, stirring his guts up and up. Speak? Could he even do that? He hadn’t spoken all day, other than a few mutter expletives and of course his groans when he was stuck with his head in the porcelain throne. He swallowed, feeling the sharp pain and rough feeling as it went down his throat, and imagined speaking with that. His nose was stuffed from sickness and earlier tears and he could only imagine the sandpaper quality of his voice. If he joined the VC they’d immediately key the problem. Maybe that would be better? They’d hear him talk, hear how utterly shit he sounded and wave him away. Tell him to sleep or down some nyquil and feel better. Perfect. And he wouldn’t even have to tame his shaking fingers into typing a legible message. Even better. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He clears his throat once more, wincing at the feeling, before opening his mouth for a test drive before he clicked the button. He spoke a few words, nonsense practice for the real thing. Fuck. That hurt. Each word sent knives down his throat, his dry tongue scraping against his even drier mouth. He also sounded like total shit, so much so that even he was a bit surprised. His voice was thick with mucus and sleep  but also paper thin and breathy, the barest hint of a wheeze whining at the edge of his voice. Well if this didn’t tip them off, then nothing short of him vomiting on stream would. He quickly typed an affirmative in chat, and took a breath. Pushed the button, adjusted his headphones and waited. The greetings started floating in immediately, warm voices, more people than he’d spoken too in ages. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A warm “Hey mate!” from Philza.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An exuberant “Welcome big man!” from Tommy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A simple “Wilbur.” from Techno.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A drawn out, but friendly, “Wilbur” from Charlie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well here goes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey guys.” Even he couldn’t help but wince as his voice hit the ear. Rough, scratchy and full of fatigue. He could only imagine what the others felt hearing that. Probably not concerned, but at least a little surprised. Silence stewed over the line for a few moments. Wilbur started to count. One second, two seconds, three seconds, fou-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You sound like utter shit big man.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ah, there you go. Never silence for long when you’re with Tommyinnit. A chuckle fell from his lips, harsh and broken but still totally and utterly fond. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No shit, Tommy” came from Techno's end of the line, dryness encompassing his tone, but something else there as well. He’d have called it concern if he didn’t know better. No one was concerned about him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You do sound pretty terrible, it’s almost snot funny.” Of course, a pun flew in from Charlie's end, though it wasn’t as enthusiastic as it normally was. He hoped he wasn’t dampening the energy for them all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wilbur, mate, you okay? You do sound awful, though I'm not sure I'd put it quite like Tommy did.” Phil’s icon lit up as he spoke, warm and friendly as ever. Something fluttered in his chest, far away from the nausea and anxiety, warm and bright. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m okay. Just a bit sick, if you couldn’t tell. I don’t think I’m up for recording today. I’m sorry Toms, I know you were looking forward to it. Feel free to record without me, I’d hate to set back your schedule or something.” He forced the words out, past the daggers in his throat. All he had to do was say this and then he could sleep. Hang up the call and go back to his lonely bed in his lonely apartment. Just a little while longer.</span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it big man. I mean, yeah it was gonna be fun, but it’d be less fun without you anyway. It’s not a big deal, it's just a video. We can film another time, once you don’t sound like utter shit.” A laugh bubbled itself up from his throat, sharp and painful but happy, at Tommy’s words. He was such a good kid. Far too good for him. Bright and funny and kind, even if he did keep changing his name on discord from ‘Wilby’ to ‘Not Wilby’. Fondness had joined the warmth in his chest and he couldn’t say he minded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, Wil, of course it's no problem. We can record anytime it's not a big deal.” came from Charlie, no joke in his tone at all. A similar assurance came from Techno, not a lot of emotion in his tone but undeniably genuine in the words he spoke. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Forget about the video mate, what's important is you getting better. What’s your plans for after this? Going back to sleep, I presume? Any of your flatmate's up for making you soup? And make sure you stay hydrated, from the sound of your voice it sounds like you haven’t drank water in awhile. And don’t forget to take some cold meds, or else you’ll feel even more shit when you wake up than when you went to sleep.” The warmth in his chest was almost enough to war with  the intense flaming of his cheeks. Phil was called Dadza for a reason, and right now it was clear. A smile, small and real, spread across his face even as his dry lips protested the motion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m definitely going back to bed after this. Sadly no soup or cold medicine on the menu, but i’ll be fine.” He forced his voice up, bright and resilient as he shared the details of his crummy existence. Tried to ignore how good soup sounded (especially the part about someone else being there to make it) and how much relief some medicine might bring. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure? Can’t you ask one of your flat mates to run out and get some for you, i’m sure they wouldn’t mind”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ignoring the voice that muttered how they absolutely would mind (why would they want to do anything for Wilbur?), he spoke again, “I would but I am home alone for a bit, no flat mates around.” He tried to keep his tone light and cheery (or as cheery as he could) so that the loneliness didn’t peek through. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re alone?” Tommy’s voice spoke up, quieter than he’s heard him in awhile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, yeah. Everyone else is on vacation or something for the next few days. Lucky me, I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That sucks big man, you shouldn’t have to be sick home alone.” He could hear some muttering from Philza's line in the background, but his spinning head could barely focus at all, so he chose to focus on Tommy’s quiet words coming down the line. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m okay Toms. I’m an adult, a big man as you would say, I can deal with being alone being a little cold.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t have to.” Somehow he couldn’t respond, all the words he wanted to say stuck in his throat. What could he say, when Tommy was right? He shouldn’t have to be alone, he shouldn’t be sick in an empty flat, no food, no medicine. Shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t. There were a lot of things he shouldn’t be. A lot of things in the world that shouldn’t be. It was wrong to be hung up on such a small one as this. Before he could speak, Phil spoke up again, voice clear and strong. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tommy’s right Wil, which is why Kristen and I are coming down right now. Well, as soon as this soup is ready. We’ll pick up some meds on the way too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? No, you don’t have to do that, it's not worth the trip, just for me. I’m fine, I’ll be fine, I’ll just sleep it off. You don’t need t-” Phil cut him off, voice brokering no arguments. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re worth it Wilbur. It's worth it, doesn’t matter the drive or anything. You’re important. We care about you, and if that means driving to you and taking care of you when you’re sick, then so be it, well worth the price of knowing you. Mate, it's not an inconvenience or anything. We want to do this, so don’t say another word about it. Just get in your bed, and tell us where you keep your spare key.”  And well, what could he say to that other than what he wanted to know?</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>More words flew by and he spoke when he needed too, but his mind was hazy. Phil logged off the call soon, following a timer and Kristen's distant voice shouting “it’s ready”, with a goodbye and a promise to see Wilbur soon before he went. Techno, Tommy and Charlie stayed on a while longer, waiting until he confirmed he was in bed and okay before saying goodbyes, surrounded of course by ‘get well soons’ (each one filled with a unique mix of expletives, puns and a monotone tone, depending on the well wisher it came from). And so here Wilbur was, alone in bed, still feeling like shit. But he wouldn’t be alone for long and the warmth in his body was no longer just a fever. And little by little, he felt better. The house wouldn’t be empty and cold and lonely, and despite himself he smiled at the thought. As he fell asleep, for the first time in a long time, he couldn’t help but be excited to wake up.</span>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i hope you enjoyed!!<br/>thought you would enjoy knowing the doc for this fic was titled: sickbur go brrrr </p>
<p>its projecting on wilbur hours, ladies, gentlemen and enby pals &lt;3</p>
<p>please leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed it!! i love reading comments, even if they're like a month after posting &lt;33</p>
<p>if you want to scream at me or with me, come join the writers block discord!</p>
<p>https://discord.gg/w9CwSK26mm</p></blockquote></div></div>
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